


Moving On

by ElizabethOShea



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:45:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethOShea/pseuds/ElizabethOShea





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msmoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/gifts).



It was only eight in the evening but they’d drawn the curtains hours ago against the early dusk and driving rain. The overhead lights were off, and Doyle’s colourful Tiffany lamp cast a mellow glow over the island the two of them had cleared for themselves among the packing cases. Doyle was sprawled in the only armchair, while Bodie perched on the unencumbered end of the sofa with a notepad open on his lap. The coffee table was littered with open take-away cartons, and the scent of spices and warm naan lingered in air heated to a cosy fug by the gas fire sputtering in the hearth. 

Bodie put down his fork and reached for his beer, making a moue of disappointment on finding it empty. He flattened the can with a squeeze of his fist, and dropped it on top of the remains of his lamb bhuna before sitting back again and reaching for his pen.

“Right. Saucepans?”

Doyle shrugged, taking another sip from his own drink. “Mine, I should think.”

“Yeah.” Bodie nodded, adding another line to his list. “And your blender, your mixer, your toaster... In fact, anything to do with actual cooking –"

“Mine,” Doyle agreed with a smile. “My teapot, too. But your kettle – mine’s on its last legs. And your coffee thingy.”

“Crockery and stuff?”

Doyle considered. “Your posh glasses.”

“Yup.” Bodie scribbled another line. “And those blue and white plates of yours.”

“Those were my mum’s. I’ve got the rest of the dinner service in the lock-up; never taken most of it out of the boxes.”

“Definitely those then. And I like your twirly cutlery.”

“No steak knives,” Doyle said.

“Do we need steak knives?”

“Dunno. You’re the steak fiend. Do we?”

“I suspect we’ll survive without them.”

Doyle grinned. “I suspect you’re right.”’ He levered himself out of his chair, heading for the kitchen. “’Nother beer?”

“Am I driving?” Bodie cast an unenthusiastic glance towards the windows as another volley of rain rattled against the glass. The wind was really picking up outside.

“Night like this?” Doyle frowned. “You don’t want to, do you? Besides, early start again tomorrow; it’ll be easier if we can just get straight up and at it.”

Bodie brightened. “Yeah, good point,” he said. “In that case, go on, you’ve twisted my arm.”

Doyle joined him on the sofa when he returned, easing in between Bodie and the stack of LPs that occupied the other cushion. He leaned to peer over Bodie’s shoulder as he placed a fresh can in his hand. “There you go. Get your laughing gear round that.”

Bodie popped the tab, took a long swallow and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Mmm,” he said, setting the can back down on the table. “That hits the spot. Now, then.” He slung his free arm around Doyle, who folded obligingly against him, and clicked his biro with a businesslike flourish. “Living room. What about your music centre? Or are we still planning on taking both?”

“Hang on.” Doyle snagged the notepad out of Bodie’s hand, brows drawing together as he ran a critical eye over the half-filled page. “Have we finished with the kitchen?”

Bodie snatched it back. “Yes. And anything we’ve missed, we’ll catch on the second sweep tomorrow.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Must be just like one of your army exercises.”

Bodie snorted. “You’re joking, mate. No comparison. Try striking camp in the middle of a sandstorm: hundred men and all their baggage, enemy baying at your heels and – “ 

“Yeah, yeah.” Doyle interrupted, giving Bodie’s thigh a fond squeeze. “Laurence had nothing on you, I’m sure. Come on, let’s get this over with, eh, then we can get to bed.”

Bodie’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking.” Then, after a moment’s consideration: “And I wouldn’t object to a few hours’ sleep after, either.”

“Oh no,” said Doyle, restraining Bodie’s optimistically wandering hand. “There’s going to be none of that tonight. We’re going to need all our strength for lifting and carrying in the morning.”

“Spoilsport.” Bodie reclaimed his hand with evident reluctance, and reached for another fortifying mouthful of beer, before settling back into the cushions, biro at the ready, and giving Doyle an encouraging nudge. “All right, slave driver. Back to it, then. Living room.”

 

~*~

 

The next day flew by in an exhausting blur of bubble wrap and boxes, trips to the dump, trips to the Salvation Army depot, and seemingly endless toing and froing between their two flats to transfer everything they were keeping of Bodie’s to Doyle’s place ready for the big push tomorrow. It was nearly midnight by the time they trudged up the stairs with the last few bits and pieces, and collapsed onto the sofa, more weary than either could remember feeling since they’d been promoted off the street and out of Macklin’s clutches years before. At least the rain had held off, Doyle thought grudgingly.

He rubbed absently at his chest while his gaze roved around the room, comparing it unfavourably to the cosy haven of last night. They’d spent more of their off-duty time here than anywhere else for the last five years. Bodie still had his own place north of the river, which was handy sometimes when a job took them out that way, but he really only spent enough time there to satisfy the requirement for discretion impressed on them by the Home Secretary. This was home. Had been home. Now, with every personal touch removed and packed away, it felt about as welcoming as some of the institutional bedsits he’d lived in as a probationer PC back in the dark ages in the East End. He wondered who’d be billeted here next, or whether the flat would be relegated to the safe house rota, waiting empty for the next poor bugger the mob decided to spirit away to sanctuary or interrogation. 

“Hurting?” Bodie asked, nodding towards Doyle’s hand, still resting on his chest. Doyle turned to him with a smile, happy to hear only lazy concern behind the question, rather than the poorly disguised panic that had sparked too many rows between them in the early days. 

Doyle shook his head. “Just uncomfortable,” he said. “Scar’s tugging a bit with all that lifting.”

“Come here.” Bodie reached out to reel him in, his own warm palm sliding inside Doyle’s shirt to cover his heart, while the other rubbed easy circles between Doyle’s shoulder blades. Doyle sighed with pleasure. There was no logical reason why a back rub should soothe the discomfort of scars left by sawing open his chest, but there was no doubt that it did.

“Mmmm, feels good. You can do that all night, if you like.”

“Under normal circumstances, nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Bodie assured him. “But,” and his smile turned rueful. “Not tonight, Josephine. I, mate, am cream crackered.”

“Told you we’d need to conserve our strength,” Doyle said. “And we’ve still got to lug it all across to the new place tomorrow.”

The new place was an end-of-terrace in Fulham bought at auction after its elderly owner died intestate. While structurally sound and with room to extend, it was a shabby monument to the nineteen fifties inside, and was going to need serious work to be considered truly habitable. They were up for it, though. With no firm plans yet for life after CI5, spending a year doing up the house while they considered their options had seemed like the sensible choice. They were lucky that their joint savings - and Doyle’s eyes had popped a little when Bodie had revealed exactly how much he’d managed to stash away during his brief mercenary career - were substantial enough to buy them the luxury of time. 

“Oh lord,” Bodie groaned. “Don’t remind me. After this, I’ll be happy if I never see another packing case as long as I live. Thank god we decided to use a firm for that part at least. I know it’s cheaper just renting a van, but I don’t think I could face it after today. Can you believe we used to do this a couple of times a year back in the bad old days?”

Doyle thought about it. “Yeah, but we never had as much to shift then, did we? I think this is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere since I left home, and you’ve been on the move longer than I have.”

“True. But,” Bodie gestured at the organised chaos around them. “When did we ever find the time to collect so much... _stuff_? Time was, we could fit everything we owned into the back of a Capri, and now look at it all.”

“I know. Last time, though.” Doyle ducked his head. “If it all works out.”

“Yeah,” Bodie agreed. “Last time.” 

Doyle felt Bodie’s eyes on him, reading him as surely as they always had. “You nervous?”

Doyle’s mouth twisted. Trust Bodie to be brave enough to say it. He looked up. “A bit, yeah. You?”

“A bit.”

They exchanged wry smiles.

“It shouldn’t make a difference,” Doyle said, impatient with himself. “After all, it’s not like we haven’t been near enough living together for years. But somehow…”

“It does,” Bodie agreed. “I know.”

“Joint mortgage,” Doyle said.

“Choosing curtains.” Bodie’s mouth twitched.

“It’s practically a marriage,” Doyle said. 

“Well, no big change there then, either,” said Bodie, the smile audible in his voice. “We’ve been practically married for years an’ all. CI5’s seen to that.”

“It’s not a joke,” Doyle said, scowling. “This is our future.”

“Who’s laughing?” Bodie said. “I mean it. Marriage is just another word for partnership. We’re already partners - in work and out of it. That’s not going to change.”

Doyle thought about it. 

“If we could get married,” he said slowly, not entirely sure he really wanted to know the answer. “I mean, you know, legally. Would you want to?”

Bodie didn’t answer immediately, and Doyle braced himself to draw away, turn it aside as a joke.

“Wait,” Bodie said, sensing his withdrawal and wrapping his arms more closely around him. “If you’re going to ask a question like that, at least give me time to think about it. Honestly? I don’t know, Ray. No, listen.” He tightened his grip as Doyle tensed against him. “I don’t mean because of what we are - because you’re a bloke or anything. I’d say the same if you were a girl. And I certainly don’t have second thoughts about being with you.” He huffed out a small, amused breath. “Bit late for that after all these years. It’s just… What I’ve seen of marriage hasn’t been all that great, you know? To me it’s very simple. I love you, and I want to live the rest of my life with you. That’s just the way it is; doesn’t matter if I say it to you here, or in front of a registrar, or in bloody Westminster Abbey.”

Doyle let that sink in, his heart full. He knew, of course, how Bodie felt about him, and Bodie knew he felt the same. But he could count on one hand the number of times they’d come out and said it to each other that way: plain and unvarnished, not masked in humour or thrown out carelessly in the heat of passion or adrenaline.

Sensing Bodie’s discomfort as the silence lengthened, Doyle sniffed and cleared his throat.

“Great big softie,” he muttered shakily, and twisted in Bodie’s embrace to pull him down into a fierce kiss. 

They rested together afterwards, faces close, just breathing and holding each other until Doyle stirred and pushed himself to his feet. He held out a hand and Bodie took it, smiling. 

“C’mon,” Doyle said. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

~*~

 

Doyle paused with his hand on the door. “We did unplug the fridge, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Bodie sighed, “We unplugged the fridge. The heating’s turned down, I’ve changed the washer on that drippy tap, the cooker’s turned off, the windows are all secured -"

“And you checked -"

“And I checked we didn’t leave anything in the dryer. Come _on_ , Ray. We’ve got to get these keys dropped off at HQ and the paperwork signed before ten, and then we need to be back in Fulham in time to settle with the movers. It’ll be another hundred quid if we keep them hanging around.”

“All right, all right. I’m coming.” He gave the empty hallway one last once-over, then pulled the front door closed behind them. Somehow, even the decisive snick of the latch had a sense of finality to it. _Last time._

He looked down at the keys in his hand, then back up to Bodie at his side. “End of an era,” he said with a smile he didn’t really feel.

Bodie looked back at him, his expression a familiar mix of exasperation and affection. “ _Beginning_ of an era,” he said. Then, adopting a corny, motivational accent: “Today is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

“Cheesy,” Doyle said.

“But true.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” Doyle looked back at the locked door, tracing the familiar patterns in the coloured glass. “Can’t be that easy, though, can it? Just walking away. Lot of memories tied up in this place.” 

Bodie shrugged. “So, we’ll remember. This isn’t an ending, Ray. We’re not forgetting, we’re just… moving on. New chapter, new memories. Better memories, maybe.”

“You reckon?” The smile came more easily this time.

“I reckon. For example,” Bodie turned to grin at him as he walked away towards the stairs. “New bed’s being delivered after lunch. I’m sure if we put our heads together we can come up with a memorable way of celebrating that.”

“Just our heads?” Doyle chuckled.

He followed Bodie’s answering laughter down the stairs, feeling suddenly carefree and younger than he had in a very long time. They wouldn’t forget, but it was true; the past was the past. This flat, and their lives in it, belonged to CI5. The future belonged to them. Bodie was right. It was time to move on.

 


End file.
